


The Navel Treatment

by i_ship_an_armada, ShinySherlock



Series: Crack Fics with Food [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bachelorette Party, Belly buttons, Body Shots, Casefic sort of, Crack, Drinking, Established Relationship, Flirting, Hen night, Jealous!Sherlock, Jealousy, M/M, Tequila, good times with limes, in the loosest sense, ouat cameo, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_ship_an_armada/pseuds/i_ship_an_armada, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When I said ‘a round on me’, this wasn’t exactly what I meant,” John said, grinning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Navel Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> This is total crack. We started with three words (club, lime, envelope) and the image of John in a tight black t-shirt and went from there.

“Bit tight,” John said, running a finger under the edge of his sleeve. The black fabric of the t-shirt hugged his biceps snugly and he grimaced at it, wondering for the hundredth time how he’d been talked into this.

“You’ve got to fit in, and dressing like my father isn’t going to cut it,” Sherlock said.

Before John could voice his objection Sherlock was waving a hand at him. “No, no, don’t look like that; your usual armor serves its purpose, but it won’t work in this situation.”

Looking at himself in the mirror earlier, John had assessed his outfit--black shirt with a slight sheen, form fitting jeans in a dark wash he wouldn’t generally pick out on his own, and lace-up black boots. Despite his reservations, John knew he looked good in the clothes Sherlock had brought home this afternoon, and he was pleasantly surprised at Sherlock’s shopping prowess.

His eyes slid now to Sherlock, who stood in front of the storefront window next to him, plucking at his curls just to have them fall back into their original position. Sherlock was in excellent dramatic form tonight, dressed all in black, though he'd stuck to his typical tight button-up shirt and bespoke trousers. Still, he looked as though he were ready for a night of dancing and debauchery, and John was more than a little disappointed he couldn't drag Sherlock back to the flat posthaste. Later, then, he promised himself.

“Oh, stop. It’s hopeless,” John said, reaching up to ruffle Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock rolled his eyes a moment but then his gaze turned to John’s own hair.

“What?” John asked, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock only smiled in response, and John leaned in to stare at his dark reflection in the window. His hair was ruffled in careless disarray. He’d thought it went with the outfit, a bit dangerous, a bit unexpected. _Bah_. It was too late to do anything about it now.

“All right, then. What now?” John asked.

“They can’t see us together,” Sherlock said, shoving at John’s shoulder to urge him out of the side street and towards the club entrance.

“Right,” John said, but then he turned to look back at Sherlock. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing again?”

A shudder of irritation rippled through Sherlock’s body and John smiled. “Get the envelope, I know, I know,” John said. He leaned his head in towards Sherlock’s ear, felt the energy change and kindle between them. “Just winding you up,” he whispered against the smooth skin of Sherlock’s neck, and John felt an entirely different sort of shudder work through him.

Pleased at Sherlock’s reactions, John smiled to himself as he turned around the corner. John could feel the thumping in his chest, the bass so loud and deep it worked its way through several feet of concrete and steel. There were no windows in this club, and it was no wonder. If there were, they would surely be shattered by now. The entrance, several meters away, was flanked by two very rough-looking men twice the size of John, and tattooed on every inch of visible skin. A short line behind black velvet stanchions ran parallel to the building, and a dozen or so chattering patrons waited, impatient--and more than half already drunk by the sound of it.

Sherlock didn’t bother with the line, of course. He strode up to the bouncers and leaned in close, his entire demeanour shifting in the blink of an eye. He whispered something in the man’s ear and trailed a long finger down a well-developed forearm before tapping it twice and leaning back, cocking his head and biting his full bottom lip. John swallowed and had to look away because Sherlock was sometimes just too good at what he did.

“John,” called Sherlock, snapping John’s attention back. Sherlock stood in the doorway, waiting, and John tried to ignore the lascivious eyes of the bouncer as they raked over Sherlock from head to toe. He stepped into his line of vision and pushed Sherlock in with one hand, throwing a sharp look over his shoulder at the bouncer as he crossed the threshold. Once inside, the music was at least twice as loud, and John winced at the noise. They were on a small landing in front of a set of stairs leading down, playbills and graffiti decorating the walls. A few people stood inside, paired off already, heads close to hear, though John suspected it was a convenient excuse. Sherlock descended and John trailed behind. At the end of the staircase, the passage veered to the right and suddenly opened up into an enormous space positively teeming with people.

 _Jesus Christ._ He was glad he wasn't claustrophobic.

Sherlock met his gaze and angled his head toward the bar, eyes glittering, excited by the chase. He waited for John to pass him, and then followed, a hand on the small of John's back. Warmth seeped through John's shirt and into his skin from Sherlock's casual touch, and he had to fight to keep his mind on their objective instead of what would happen once he got Sherlock alone after this was all over.

Sherlock pointed at the bar, indicating John should get himself a drink, and then broke off, striding away with purpose. John sighed, hoping he could pull this off, and if he couldn't, that Sherlock's backup plan would work without a hitch. If it didn't, they'd be back to square one and all their planning would be shot to hell.

The bartop, long and sleek, wrapped around an impressive circular display of alcohol, lit in cool blue tones reminiscent of an ice sculpture. Bartenders worked feverishly, concocting brightly coloured drinks and sliding beers to waiting customers. John squeezed in and leaned forward until he caught the eye of a bartender and waved him over.

The bartender--his nametag said Killian--gave John a harried smile as he leaned near and said, "What can I get you, love?" Mm. Irish accent. It went perfectly with his sleek dark hair and the expertly applied guyliner.

John licked his lips and let a slow grin slide across his face. He raised an eyebrow, and, unable to resist flirting just a little, purred, "I think I'll take something Irish."

The bartender paused, and then let out a delighted laugh. "That's a new one." He grabbed a longnecked bottle of beer and set it on the bartop, and, leaning forward over the glasses, lifted himself up with the strength of his arms. His face near enough so John could feel his breath--minty--Killian said, "Bar rules are that I can't be anything but professional with the customers, you know."

"Rules are meant to be broken," John replied, winking before taking the beer in his hand and drinking deeply. The bartender watched his throat move, so John took his time bringing it away from his lips.

They grinned at each other, enjoying the game until a fellow bartender elbowed Killian into action, redirecting his attention to a waiting gaggle of women at the other end of the bar. Killian gave John an apologetic shrug and John raised his beer in acknowledgement, shaking himself just a bit to get back on task.

He scanned the room, eyes roving over the sea of bodies until he found Sherlock, who stood facing him perhaps five meters away. John, in the middle of taking another sip, nearly choked at the expression on Sherlock's face--lips thin, color high on his cheeks visible even in the dim light. Jealous. John chuckled and smiled a smile that said, _Yeah, turnabout's fair play, isn't it?_ Sherlock got the message loud and clear, and frowned, lines showing in sharp relief between his brows. Then, a shift in his expression caught John's attention as Sherlock looked pointedly to his right.

Their suspect, Elizabeth Harper, was a tall, dark-skinned woman with a curtain of black hair, and John located her immediately. She stood, surrounded by four other women, at one of the bar-height tables, her curvy figure clad in a shimmering silver dress that caught the light. She was older than John, out on her hen night before her third wedding, and from the look of her, she had no intention of turning in early. From the bar, John watched, noting the slim, black handbag that hung from her shoulder. Now he just needed an excuse to get closer, and a distraction to nick the envelope from her.

John took another long pull from his beer and then looked over to the women. One of the hens, a shorter woman with bright ginger hair, happened to meet his gaze with her own, and John let a smile cross his lips. When she smiled back, he knew he had his in.

He turned back to the flirty bartender who'd worked his way down to John's side of the bar once again. “Hey, mate, what are the hens drinking tonight?”

Disappointment flickered over Killian's face, but only for a moment. “Tequila shots,” he answered, voice still friendly though less hopeful.

“Send ‘em a round on me,” John said.

With a nod, the bartender poured five shots of golden liquid and added them to a tray with a salt shaker and a bowl full of bright wedges of lime. John paid as the server fetched the tray, and his eyes followed her path over to the group of women to watch how his gift was received.

When the server started setting the glasses on the table, one of the women waved her hand, obviously trying to say they hadn't ordered the round. The server turned and pointed to John, who waggled his fingers at them and raised his beer. They all smiled in his direction and then put their heads together, giggling and nodding. John flicked a glance at Sherlock, whose eyes were on the group. He paid John no notice.

The women seemed to come to some sort of decision, breaking apart all at once like a team of footballers after a pep talk, and started his way. John frowned, a bit concerned as this was certainly not part of the plan.

The ginger reached him first.

"Thanks for the shots." She held hers up. None of them had done the shot yet, though they held the limes ready. John nodded and was about to apply his flirting skills and talk them up when the ginger continued. "But we've got a better idea." She glanced back at her friends, and they all giggled.

"I'm Cherise.” She pointed with her wedge of lime at Elizabeth Harper. “This is Bess, and she's getting married next week. We think she deserves something special."

John turned on his hundred-watt smile. "My name's John, and I suppose you're right about that." His mind was churning, wondering where the hell Sherlock was. He couldn't see anything past all the sequins and satin in front of him. "What do you have in mind?"

Cherise leaned in conspiratorially. "Have you ever done a body shot?" she asked in his ear. She smelled like Chanel No. 5 and gin.

John blinked. The one and only time he had done a body shot he’d been eighteen and “bi-curious”. He had been on the receiving end of the shot, and the blur of an evening had ended in frantic, inexpert sex on the floor of his parents’ sitting room and a colossal headache. But the look in Bess’ eyes made it clear, she wasn’t the sort who took “no” for an answer--and her interest might just be the distraction he needed.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, voice smoky and eyes dark. “Who’s first?”

“That’d be you, love,” Bess hummed, boldly sliding her hand up John's leg.

Nonplussed, he resorted to his usual strategy which drove Sherlock bonkers and repeated, “Me?”

Sleek, brown fingers slid under the hem of the tight black shirt, nails scraping along his belly as Bess lifted the fabric above his jeans, revealing a strip of skin.

Comprehension dawned. “Oh.”

Caught somewhere between stunned and flattered, John swallowed. The women seemed to take his crooked smile as consent, and within moments found himself shirtless. Killian had reappeared and was helpfully clearing space on the bar as John allowed himself to be manhandled--or was it womanhandled?--up onto the bartop. Multiple hands played over his body at once in an uncoordinated effort to lift and prod him onto the surface, but soon he was laid out flat on his back. His eyes looked up into Killian’s amused face.

“When I said ‘a round on me’, this wasn’t exactly what I meant,” John said, grinning.

The bartop was cold and uncomfortable against his bare skin, but at least it was dry. He wriggled in place, bending his legs so his feet rested flat. He already had hacked off enough of the bar's customers taking up this much space, and although his outward demeanor shone with confidence, there was still a small part of him that felt vulnerable up there, half-starkers for all to see. Having his legs up made him feel less so. He tossed his shirt in his lap, not wanting to lose it under the stillettoed feet of the hen party.

“Works for me,” the bartender answered with a wink.

Bess stood at John’s right and glanced at both men in turn, noting their interaction. A sly smile pulled at one corner of her mouth.

“You,” she said, indicating Killian with a tilt of her head, “You hold on to his lovely arms, will you?” She slid her hands up John's biceps and gathered his hands together above his head.

John’s gaze flickered from her to Killian, whose eyes sparked with interest.

“I’d better not--” Killian attempted to decline.

“Do it,” Bess commanded in the smooth, firm tone of someone who was used to being obeyed, and John felt Killian’s hand come to replace Bess’, strong fingers winding around his wrists.

John’s heart fluttered in his chest, but not for the right reasons. Killian was a beautiful man, and flirting with him earlier had been a satisfying distraction, but having Killian's mouth on his neck for this shot might be a bit too much, even for a case. As flattered as John was to have the attention of so many, it was meaningless fantasy. If he was honest, he’d much rather be with Sherlock, in private, with the intimacy they’d developed together, knowing each other’s bodies and thoughts as well as they knew their own. Though he hardly felt taken advantage of, he wouldn’t mind getting out of following through on this charade, either. Where the hell was Sherlock, anyway?

Killian took the offered glass of tequila with his one free hand and set on the plane of John's stomach, just over his belly button. John tried not to take deep breaths, afraid he might tip the glass. His concentration on this very important task was broken when Killian said, "Open up," and he felt the cool rind of a lime against his mouth.

He found Killian looking at him expectantly, dark eyes glittering, and John parted his lips. The lime slipped in and John caught it with his teeth.

"Good boy," he heard Bess say nearby.

John knew what the next step was, and a small spike of anxiety tightened his spine.

“Enjoying yourself?”

His tension eased away at the familiar sound of Sherlock’s voice, even though the tone was threaded with agitation. Jealousy colored Sherlock's actions in the most interesting of ways. John closed his eyes in relief, smiling faintly at the chatter around him. Sherlock had stepped on a few toes to jockey his way forward through the crowd, but no one was telling him to sod off, so that was good.

“As much as can be expected, considering I've got my shirt off in a public place and it's a bit cold without it."

Killian's hands were unceremoniously pushed away and replaced by Sherlock's long fingers. “Looks like you have several volunteers waiting to warm you. Shall I let them?" The fingers around John's wrist squeezed, and John opened his eyes. Sherlock loomed near, his face mere inches away, eyes intense, lips parted slightly as he waited for a response. John could see a flash of white teeth and he had to swallow a groan, but couldn't suppress the shudder that rippled through him.

"No," he croaked.

The pressure let up slightly from John's wrists, and Sherlock's mouth curled into a predatory grin. "Right answer."

Straightening, Sherlock's eyes skated down John's body, pausing on the shot. He cocked his head and tsked, lips pursed. John, astounded it hadn't spilled yet, gasped when Sherlock picked up the glass and tipped the tequila out into the well of John's navel. Although John admittedly had a deep belly button, it wasn't nearly deep enough to hold all the contents of the glass, and some trickled down his side. He watched Sherlock tracing the trail of spirits with his eyes, and the world receded to just the two of them.

"Do I need to hold your arms anymore, John?"

"No."

Letting go of John's wrists, Sherlock lifted a shaker of salt off the counter near John's head and threaded his fingers through John's hair with his other hand. Tugging gently, he angled John's head away from him, and John found himself looking at himself in the reflective surface of the liquor display behind the bar.

The rest of the faces were a blur, but he could see himself and Sherlock in sharp, vivid detail. _Jesus_. Did they really look like that? Heat curled in his belly.

Sherlock's curly head bent down as he licked a hot, wet stripe along John's neck. His breath warming John's ear, Sherlock murmured just loud enough for John to hear, "Lick it, slam it, suck it. Isn't that how it goes, John?"

Simple, innocuous words, said in a way that made them positively sinful. It was all John could do not to arch his back and moan.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it," he choked out as Sherlock shook salt out on John's neck. John felt it in his hair and even a few grains in his ear, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His heart pounded a staccato rhythm.

Sherlock once again positioned himself near John's face, dominating his attention. High color bloomed on his pale cheeks and the tip of his pink tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip. Oh, yes, Sherlock was enjoying himself, too.

With no other warning, Sherlock dipped his head to John's neck and lapped at the salt there with the flat of his tongue. He took his time about it, drawing John's skin into his mouth, tugging at it with his teeth until John could barely keep it together.

Just as John thought he couldn't take any more, Sherlock backed away and the skin on John's neck tingled and cooled when the air of the bar took the place of Sherlock's mouth. As John watched, Sherlock shifted his body and bent over John's belly, lowering his head. He flicked out his tongue, first to lick away the line of tequila still wet on John's side, then to trace it back up to its source.

John heard a groan, and he was fairly certain it didn't originate from him.

Sherlock, mouth over John's navel, sucked up the tequila and swallowed, his lovely throat working at the motion. His tongue shot out again, dipping into John's belly button and around it, erasing any trace of alcohol, the caress ending with a nip of his teeth. John pressed his fists into the bartop over his head, desperation to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair overwhelming him.

In one sinuous move, Sherlock brought his head up to John's once again, his mouth--reddened now-- hovering over John's. His hooded eyes sparkled with desire, heavy and palpable between them. John raised his head a fraction off the bartop and brushed the lime across Sherlock's lip, teasing, goading, and Sherlock bit, a whiplash-fast flash of teeth that knocked John's head on the bartop again with a soft thump. He bit at the lime, and sucked at it, drawing the juice into his mouth but also dribbling a bit onto John's.

Hovering above John, Sherlock took the wedge from between his lips slowly, his eyes never leaving John’s, and John was grateful for the shirt bunched in his lap that somewhat masked his arousal. The shirt did nothing, however, to hide his increased pulse, the color in his cheeks, the rising need to get Sherlock home as soon as possible.

As Sherlock leaned back to stand straight, John rose to sitting, his body following Sherlock’s movement as though tethered to him. John turned, legs parted, and Sherlock stepped between them.

“Home.”

It wasn’t a question, but John answered anyway. “God, yes,” he said on an exhale, and he felt Sherlock pushing the rumpled shirt against his chest.

As he reached up to pull the thing over his head, he noticed for the first time the audience they’d had--the women, jaws slack and eyes wide, standing in a semi-circle around the two of them. He let out a nervous half-chuckle and looked away to the side, but that was no better. Killian stood behind the bar, looking up at him with dark, shining eyes, his gaze full of awe--and a sheen of jealousy.

Sherlock linked his hand with John's and pulled at him until he slid off the bar, his chest pressed to Sherlock's side. After a quick, dismissive glance around them at the crowd, the other patrons seemed to get the silent message, parting to let them through. John worked to keep up with Sherlock who ate up the space between the bar and the stairs with long-legged strides. He took the stairs, two at a time, and John cursed on a laugh at Sherlock's urgency to get outside and into the night. No one would hear a complaint from him though, as eager as he was to get home and divest Sherlock of his clothing.

They stepped out of the club into the cool night air, John’s mild embarrassment receding, his lips turning up into a grin of satisfaction as they walked away.

“Had some fun, did you?” Sherlock snarked. “Too bad it cost us the case.”

“What are you on about?” John asked, still grinning.

Sherlock stopped and John nearly ran into him. “The _envelope_ , John," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and flinging his arms about in irritation. "Or did you forget our entire purpose this evening while you were busy entertaining the patrons of that bar with your bare pectorals and your... your..." He waved a hand, indicating John's entire body. "... _you_. You were supposed to get the envelope.”

He laughed, delighted at Sherlock’s flustered antics. “And who says I didn’t?” John pulled the envelope from his back pocket and waved it gently in front of Sherlock's eyes, whose expression melted from agitated to impressed. He arched an eyebrow at John over the top of the cream paper, his gaze turning into something else entirely.

John brought the envelope down, slipped it back into his jeans, and cocked his head. "Let's get a cab, shall we?" He pitched his tone low, imparting his words with meaning beyond the literal. He licked his lips and Sherlock followed John's tongue with hungry eyes.

"John, I think that is an excellent idea."

**Author's Note:**

> "Killian" is a blend of Captain Hook on _Once Upon A Time_ and Colin O'Donaghue (the Irish actor who plays him).  
>  ~~~~~~~~~~  
> Thank you for reading! Comments always appreciated. <3  
> (And if you're looking for more to read, I (Shiny) made a [fic index](http://shinysherlock.tumblr.com/post/105509221665) of my stuff by category which I hope is helpful.)


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